Detective Hummel, I Presume
by i m a g i n e dream b e
Summary: When Carole Hudson is brutally shot, Kurt must keep his emotions in check as he pursues the killer of his dead father's fiancee. All, however, is not how it seems, and each step he takes leads to yet another sharp turn to the mysterious. Tentative title.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing.

.

.

.

_**Ping.**_

_(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine—)_

_**Ping.**_

_(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—)_

_**Ping.**_

His breath rose from his lips in tiny puffs, illuminating a small area of space for split seconds at a time before evaporating hazily from view as he edged his way around a corner.

Palm against stone, skin against tough cloth. Finger on trigger. Flashlight in hand.

Kurt's eyes directed themselves pointedly to the tiny girl next to him, and Tina nodded quietly, retracting her gun and slipping away towards the rear exit in the darkness, clicking her flashlight off as he did the same. He turned slowly, hoping for an easy search.

(Black. Black. Black. Black.)

Of course that wasn't very likely. He continued, degree by degree, still counting in his head.

_(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight—)_

_**Ping.**_

Kurt stopped abruptly, turning slightly to accommodate his previous position, eyes straining to see through the black, ears straining to hear, to get a fix on the suspect, and stepped cautiously over a divider.

_(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven—)_

_**Ping.**_

_Relax, relax, relax,_ he told himself quietly, neglecting to breathe in as he awaited the next—

_(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. S—)_

_**Ping.**_

Definitely faster.

His earpiece remained in place, but this was not a surprise to him— it had stayed firm in the face of shootings and car chases, even surviving the fall he had taken a few years prior over a small skyscraper off 52nd. Kurt had emerged relatively unscathed, bleeding from his legs and arms, scratches covering his face that Lopez had assured him looked quite sexy indeed.

Lucky, she said.

The murderer he had been chasing had emerged dead. Seven civilians had died.

He had spent six months in physical therapy to regain power over his feet.

Lucky.

It was all comparative in this field. Always based on someone else's success, someone else's misfortune. He turned a fraction of a degree.

_(One. Two. Three—)_

_**Ping.**_

Good.

Idly, he considered that his team must have noticed him passing this area at least a dozen times. He could practically see Hudson-Berry and St. James, smacking their foreheads as they shouted from their van in an alleyway nearby, probably bonding over their immense frustration while Finn Hudson-Berry sat idly at home, waiting for his wife to come home. But he couldn't hear that— only the quiet noises that sounded as he neared his target. He could only discern the location based on these noises— hear one, circle around. Pray that he heard the tell-tale sound often enough to realize he had reached his target. Pray that when it did so, the same sound would alert the rest of the team with him— that they would all be alert, all ready to take him down.

Personally, he would have preferred the night vision goggles. They looked good, too.

Uncertain footsteps were his method of travel— uncertain, but silent. Silent— silence was their mode of operation. Without it, they would be utterly… well, screwed.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and it made him terribly aware of his shirt sticking clammily to his back, of the pain in his feet as he trudged on tiptoes around corners, of that one _infernal_ strand of hair tickling the spot directly adjacent to his eye…

_**Ping.**_

_Click._

He turned, barely in time to see Tina return stealthily to his side, at least twenty-three accompanying her for backup.

The captain had been generous. But that was no cause for celebration— in fact, it made what they were doing even more vital.

Kurt signaled quickly with his hands, and the team raised their guns, Lopez nodding in the back and moving her finger an inch to the power switch of the flashlight in her hand, rubbing over the rubber button, aching to press.

Waiting, waiting, waiting…

_**Ping.**_

Pandemonium. Lopez switched on the light, a dozen others shouting as the suspect, a deceptively fragile looking man of forty, attempted to bolt, flashes of his greying hair visible between shadows. Kurt was the fastest, his eyes trained solely on the man's wrinkled skin, memorizing his dull eyes and laugh lines. But most of all, Kurt kept his eyes on the gun in his hand.

"_NYPD!"_

"You don't understand! You've got the wrong guy!"

"_Mr. Tyson, we just need to—"_

"No! It wasn't me!"

"_NYPD! Stop now, we need to—"_

"It wasn't me! It wasn't me!"

"_Drop the weapon, Tyson! Drop it now!"_

"_Game over, Tyson, just drop the weapon and we can get this all over—"_

"No!"

"_Hummel! Down the west side, 82!"_

Kurt rounded the corner, cutting across the parking lot with ease.

_Eyes on the target. Stay on the target._

Flashes of memory— his father tossing him a baseball, his eyes sharp but kind, teaching him the

His breaths became labored, hastily trying to catch up with the fleeing criminal, but he was already at the door already—

"Tyson!" Kurt shouted in a last ditch effort. "Tyson, stop your fucking ass right there!"

Tyson turned in surprise, evidently under the assumption he had left them all behind, and Kurt pounced as two shots rang through the air.

"God!" Kurt screwed up his face in pain, pulling out handcuffs and arresting Tyson as soon as possible. "You have the right to… to…" Tyson's immobilized body blurred and he began to tip over. A strong arm pulled him upright. Noah Puckerman had caught up at last, breathing heavily as he yanked Tyson away, continuing to inform him of his rights. Kurt glanced after them for a minute, his gaze blurring again. His head dropped against his chest, and he noticed with mild interest that his calf appeared to be soaked in scarlet— fresh blood.

Well, that was odd.

"Hummel?"

The rest of his team was catching up, it seemed. A pair of soft hands caught him and lowered his head gently to the cement.

Well, that was even odder. When was he falling?

"Just now," Tina said gently, her voice worried. Had he spoken aloud? Why was she worried?

"Don't worry," he sighed quietly, his vision darkening. "I'm just fine. Just…"

Black.

.

.

.

A/N: This is a direct result of loving Klaine and watching Castle. I have a generic plan and plot line, but I can't honestly predict how long the story is. All I can hope for is to not give up on it halfway like I do so many others.

Let me know what you think!

~idb


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own no characters, etc.

.

.

.

"Kurt!"

"Go away." Kurt gritted out, watching the lights change slowly and wishing he was capable of taking the stairs.

"What the hell is the matter with you? Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"_Kurt!_"

Why were married people so persistent? Santana had left him alone. _Rachel_ had left him alone.

Oh. Well, that destroyed his whole theory on married people. Hm. Did it count if they weren't emotionally invested?

_Steer clear of that topic, Hummel. Can't choose sides. Best friend against brother? No way._

"This is really, really not a good idea."

Kurt winced as the doors to the elevator opened and the bright lights glared through his hazy vision. "Shut it, Chang."

"_Cohen-_Chang," Mike insisted, frowning as Tina hovered on Kurt's other side, rolling her eyes. "What? I love you!"

Tina opened her mouth, smiling slightly, but Kurt smirked, intercepting with a "Well, that's very kind, and certainly explains your concern for my well-being, but it certainly must rankle with your wife over here. Or did you forget she was here?"

Mike rolled his eyes and fell back. Tina persisted, finally succeeding in catching his arm and yanking it back. "Kurt." Her voice was uncharacteristically sad, and he grudgingly turned, careful not to betray any emotions.

"What do you want me to do, Tina? Let him go free? I need a confession, or information, or we won't—"

"You were just _shot!_ Jesus, you're still bleeding all over the floor!"

He winced internally for the janitors as his eyes confirmed her statement, but barreled on nonetheless. "And the man who did it is sitting in that room, about to—"

"Look, Kurt!" she raised her voice and looked around, lowering it as she noticed a few stares. "Kurt, I understand that you're good. I get that you're this amazing cop, and that you refuse to give up or let go. You have an iron fist, and you like it. But _this _man?_ He_ isn't giving up information, and unfortunately he also alibies out." Kurt began to interrupt, but she held up a hand. "I know you want him to be the guy. I want him to be the guy. But he isn't the guy. Kurt, Tyson didn't kill Carole Hudson."

Kurt pursed his lips, glancing away as he blinked hard, his eyesight getting even more fucked up than usual. His eyes hurt, his leg hurt, his heart hurt. It hurt everywhere.

"Now you… you need to accept these facts," Tina continued. "If you set your sights too focused, you'll never catch the actual jackass who did this. Do you want that?" Sensing his drifting focus, she hit his arm lightly to regain his attention. "We're all here for you. Look around. _Look_." She jerked her head and he followed her gaze. Berry and St. James were grabbing coffee, her hair falling in front of her face as she laughed at something he said, her marriage falling to pieces as he looked at her through a curly mess of hair. Lopez, Pierce, and the other Cohen-Chang were huddling together, arms crossed as they looked over the packet on their table, sifting through paperwork to find clues. Puckerman was at the door to the interrogation room, leaning against it as he spoke to an intern. "We're all here to help you. _You,_ Kurt. The lead investigator. _You_ call the shots. But you need to stay calm as you lead us, or we won't know where we're going, and this investigation is going to end up like the Titanic mark two. You know why Finn isn't on this case. Do you want that to be you, too?"

"Being focused is not the same as charging into a suspect's house without a warrant and shouting the place down. And while I don't condone his actions, he did get us a lead before he was benched. _This_ lead."

"And this lead is just that— a lead. A suspect. Not the solution."

"But—"

"You're injured, Kurt. Charging in while you're so emotional is going to ruin everything we have in place. All it'll do is—"

"_No!_" Kurt yelled, and Tina quieted. Silence fell throughout the building and heads craned to look at him but he paid no mind. "This man _shot_ me to escape. He _shot_ me. If that isn't a guilty conscience, I don't know what is—!"

"Just a few days ago, you would have said—"

"It doesn't _matter!_" Kurt hissed, frustration seeping through his voice as he mastered the impulse to throw something. If only she would just _listen_. "Tina, you're great, and I love you, but coddling this man is going to get us nowhere. We can't _move_ without putting fear into him. And I'd die before letting Finn go through the agony of filing this case away on a shelf and never seeing it again, never gaining closure. _Over my dead body."_

They had reached the door. Kurt pried it open, yanking it with excessive force as he entered, catching the meekest response he had ever gotten from one of his best friends in years.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

As he turned to shut the door behind him, his eyes squeezed shut. He considered the pain in his leg, the pain in his head, the pain his friends were enduring, the pain he was putting his friends through by not being treated.

And the pain Finn was going through. The pain Burt would have been going through had he still been here to see this.

No.

This needed to be brought to a swift end.

He glanced one last time at the bronze handle, glinting from the threatening lights on the ceiling, reflecting the lone figure seated behind him. Looking elsewhere. Unaware of his presence. The handle, so easy to twist. A little applied force and he could be walking through the door again.

So easy to turn back. So easy to put it off.

No.

He turned reluctantly.

Justice needed to be served as soon as possible. He owed this to his broken family.

.

.

.

Review.


End file.
